


Monna Innominata

by skitzofreak



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Gen, Inception AU, M/M, Mind Screw, Violence, dream theft, no Death Star, possibly something worse, still mostly following Rogue one's plot, tumblr prompt that got way out of hand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-02 09:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11506788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitzofreak/pseuds/skitzofreak
Summary: Her last thought before she pulls the trigger is an irritated: it was a shitty plan.Jyn wakes up.-The Rogue One/Inception fusion I didn't know I wanted to write.





	1. waiting for the fall of man

**Author's Note:**

> [Monna Innominata](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/monna-innominata-i-dream-you-wake)  
>  (I dream of you, to wake)
> 
> I'm a bit late to this fandom, because I didn't see Rogue One until I could get it on DVD. But once I saw it, I promptly dove head first into the Firm Denial Camp and now require endless fix-it fics and AU's to cope. 
> 
> This attempt at writing came from a nifty tumblr post [here](http://a-non-sequitur.tumblr.com/post/157039427478/a-rogue-one-inceptionau) and sort of grew out of control. Cassian the Rebel dream thief Forger! Jyn pulled in to run an extraction on her long lost father! Bodhi's goggles as a totem! Baze and Chirrut designing people's dreams! Seriously, what's not to love about the idea?

The neon lights of the stage pulse and flash in the dark, beating in time with the heavy, driving beat of the music, in time with Jyn’s pounding heart. The lights glitter in the Omwati woman’s iridescent hair, which would mesmerize Jyn if the spice-stick in her hand were real, if she were as high as she pretends to be. “I don’t wanna talk about business anymore, honey,” Orona Stitha laughs, reaching to tug on a loose strand of hair that has escaped Jyn’s hair clip. Jyn bites back the urge to twitch away, bites at the fake spice-stick instead, and then flashes teeth in something like a smile. “I wanna talk about you,” Orona says in a sing-song little voice, “About why you’re here.”

“Here because you’re pretty,” Jyn answers, slurring a little. “Here because I want you,” she continues, and drops her eyes to hide the lie.

Orona doesn’t see it, sees only flushed cheeks and mussed hair and the flashing light of false shooting stars. She laughs again, leans in, filling Jyn’s vision with delicate blue features and that glimmering hair. “You’re here,” she murmurs, just loud enough, “because you’re a thief.”

Jyn does not freeze. She does not jump, or flinch back, or reach up and wrap her (in reality, scarred and calloused, in this place, perfectly smooth) hands and snap Orona’s thin neck. She turns her face, slowly, and raises an eyebrow. The Omwati winks, pale blue lid dropping over her drugged, blown-out pupil, and presses her lips almost sweetly to the corner of Jyn’s mouth. “You’ve come to steal my heart,” Orona says against her skin, giggling, and Jyn lets herself breathe again.

“Something like that,” she smiles, and on impulse, reaches out a hand. “Hey!” Orona squeals. “Not here, honey, someone will see!” Over her shoulder, the dancing crowd pauses, turns, looks, and Jyn pulls back her hand but turns her head to brush a kiss against the mark’s temple.

“Then let’s go somewhere private,” she says, and her voice does not tremble.

The dancers turn away, moving in time to the music that Orona did not hear stop.

“I’ve got a place,” Orona tells her, tugging on her hand, eager, and Jyn lets her keep contact. Almost there. Almost.

The transition is tricky; Jyn set this up last minute so the door to the club opens directly into Orona’s little apartment, and Jyn has to time her distraction perfectly. Orona fumbles the door open and Jyn leans up to kiss her as she does, digging her fingers into the ticklish spot that she knows will be on Orona’s left upper ribcage. Orona Stitha started her holonet profile at adolescence, and she posts flash-holos of dancing to her favorite music in her favorite clubs on QuantaGram, streams long hours of personal rants and opinions on various fashions and foibles of her wealthy inner circle on StarScreen, and uploads damn near every detail of her life on her Nebula Network account. Jyn knows what she ate for breakfast that morning, what she thought about every brand of shimmerdust body paint, and all three spots on her slender blue body that Orona describes as “just ridiculously ticklish.”

She also knows that Orona Stitha has relationship issues with her wealthy and powerful mother, who wants her daughter to take more responsibility in Stitha Manufacturing. In an effort to tie Orona more firmly into the business, Janina Stitha has given Orona access to the financial network of the company. So far, Orona does not seem much interested, but that's okay. Jyn could be interested for her. Interested to the tune of several hundred credits from a rival manufacturer, and maybe a chance to slice a little piece of that pie for herself.

Orona laughs as Jyn’s fingers slide along her sensitive ribs, and tugs at her (clean, pretty, painted, unnatural) hands to pull her into the apartment. The club music still pulses through the walls, the floor shakes with the feet of the dancers just outside, but Orona is focused on Jyn's hands and over her sharp shoulder Jyn can see the desk – and on it, the datapad, the target, the promise of credits and food and a ticket off this world and on to the next.

“Come on,” she murmurs, voice low and gentle as she can manage (Orona flinches a little, and Jyn gives up on gentle and goes for needy instead). “Come on. Show me where.” “Here,” Orona winds long arms around Jyn’s neck and pulls again, stumbling away from the desk and toward the bed just visible around the corner. Jyn smiles, stumbles after, then staggers a little harder and hooks a foot through Orona’s own expensive heels. The girl pitches over, and Jyn controls their fall to land in a painless tangle on the floor. But painless and pointless are two different things; Jyn thumps her head carefully on the floor and lets out a small but distinct groan.

“Oh no!” Orona laughs, breathless and almost innocent. “I’m such a clumsy fool, are you alright?”

“It’s fine,” Jyn tells her, but she lies still and touches her head lightly as if it aches. “Just a little bump. Some more spice should clear it up, make me better.” She pauses, but Orona is still on top of her, staring, giggling, not moving. “You got anything in here?” Jyn keeps the exasperation out of her voice, smiles, pokes Orona’s second ticklish spot, glances towards the fresher where just last week Orona filmed a holo of herself doing a makeup tutorial and blowing kisses at her Star Screen followers. In the background of that holo had been a small green cabinet hanging open, bottles and tubes and little boxes with labels neatly turned out and in full view.

“Oh, yeah, sure, just one split second, honey,” Orona wiggles her way up, slapping at Jyn’s skittering fingers playfully. She stumbles to the fresher, humming along to the club music, and any moment she may notice the stamp of feet too close to her door (closer now than it was a moment before, the dancers are restless, the dancers _know_ ) and Jyn’s running out of time. But Jyn’s also an expert, and a survivor, and she’s already entering the password for the datapad (Orona’s favorite singer, plus her birthday, because three months ago she squealed for hours about a special birthday concert on StarScreen and three days ago she joked on Nebula Net that she used the same password for everything) before Orona’s iridescent hair has disappeared fully into the fresher.

The passwords and access points for Stitha’s financial network are sitting right on top, because Jyn spent an hour priming the girl with small talk about the business before the spice-sticks could kick in (before Orona could think they should be kicking in), and Jyn takes a quick breath as she memorizes what she reads. There. Done.

Now the hard part.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Orona calls, petulant and loud from the hallway. The music has changed again, faster, but not fast enough. Jyn grimaces. She’s mistimed, damn it all, and now she has maybe ten more minutes to either keep up the lie or run for her life. Or, of course, the alternative, but Jyn feels a pulse of bile on her tongue and labels that a Last Resort.

“Here, honey,” she calls, and stalks around the desk towards the wavering mark.

“I got some sticks,” Orona holds up a handful of colorful drugs and smiles, but there’s an edge of uncertainty to it. Jyn flicks a glance at the door behind the mark. Is the music louder, or is the pounding of feet closer? A flicker in the open fresher doorway – a flash of green grass and brown braids, and the smell of the sea. “You want some?” The edge in Orona’s voice is sharper, and though her blown-out pupils still shine with lust and humor there is a hint of truth oozing slowly in.

Jyn hums and steps closer, reaching for Orona’s sides, her neck, pulling her down into a kiss that angles her head out of the way, gives Jyn a clear view of the door. No, she’s not imagining the way the doorframe shakes, and the flashing lights from the club are pulsing in through the cracks now. Orona moans, and Jyn opens her mouth and lets her kiss, but her eyes stay open and she waits. The pounding comes closer, the music is fast but, shit, not fast enough, _it’s not time_ , and the mark gasps against her mouth but it’s the wrong kind of gasp because she doesn’t _know_ but she suspects and Jyn jerks back at last.

The pounding is at the door now, fists and feet slamming it open as the dancers pour inside and Orona stands there with her mouth open, stunned into immobility, but Jyn’s turning on her heel and bolting for the window. A second too late, a millimeter too short, the rioting dancers catch her by the shirt and Jyn pulls out her blaster and puts it to her temple.

Her last thought before she pulls the trigger is an irritated _it was a shitty plan_.

 

Jyn wakes up.

Her hand flies up, and her nails dig into the wrists reaching for her head. “Ow, hey!” the owner of the wrists protests. “I was just trying to help.”

“Don’t,” Jyn snaps, and yanks the headphones away herself. The private chauffeur she bribed to run the PASIV and play the musical exit cue pouts at her, rubbing his wrist and sulking back on the expensive upholstery of the private gravcar registered to Stitha Manufacturing. Next to him, Orona Stitha slumps, wrist outstretched, the line from the PASIV still pumping a gentle sedative into the pinkish vein just visible under powder blue skin. Jyn yanks her own line out with brutal efficiency, and within two minutes has the whole contraption packed and settled in her bag.

“She won’t wake up for awhile, right?” Stitha’s driver eyes the socialite nervously. “Not until we get to her apartment, you said.”

Jyn shrugs, and then slaps a small wad of credits in his hand. “Don’t touch her until you get there,” she says shortly. In her head, Saw growls - _he knows your face, she might notice the needle mark, you leave yourself too vulnerable_ \- and the weight of the blaster tucked into her boot is heavy, the knives secured to her wrists are warm. The chauffeur counts his credits, flicking looks at the socialite that are half frightened, half triumphant. Jyn has seen his apartment too, and it’s a far cry from the elegant furnishings where Orona had (not actually) dragged Jyn.

 _He could identify you later_ , Saw mutters darkly in her memories.

“So, guess that’s it then,” the driver says, looking up and smiling. “Uh, good luck.”

The blaster is heavy, the knives are warm, but Saw gave up his right to nag her long ago, so Jyn picks up her bag, swings out of the gravcar, and walks away without a backward glance.

Time to get paid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up Star Wars social media, because I couldn't find anything except "the holonet" and I figured there was probably more to it than that. Mostly I just used stuff we have now, but in space! And just like our real world equivalents, they are great places for the aspiring thief/stalker to pick up data on a target. Be careful what you post, friends! (This has been a PSA)
> 
> StarScreen = Youtube  
> Nebula Net = Facebook  
> QuantaGram = Instagram (I'm shameless)


	2. on the edge of the devil's backbone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They call it the mind-killer.

“What took you so kriffing long?” Tivik hisses, reaching out to clutch at Cassian’s jacket. Cassian catches his hands, uses the contact to leverage Tivik backwards, deeper into the alley.

“You called me in early,” he admonishes, voice as low as possible in the general roar of the market crowd. “I had to come from further away.”

“I had to,” Tivik whines, obediently scooting against the wall, shooting blatantly nervous looks over Cassian’s shoulder. “They’re recalling me, changed up the schedule again, I was gonna tell you but you’re late and I gotta go, man, I _gotta go,_ right now.”

He moves to push his way back into the crowd, but Cassian steps abruptly into his path and Tivik crashes into his shoulder instead. “Easy,” Cassian soothes, cool, calm. “Tell me, first. What have you found?”

Tivik swallows, a sweating wreck, and Cassian presses him back against the alley wall as gently as he can. The shorter man shudders and jerks away, so Cassian gives up on gentleness and goes back to patience. “They’re building it,” Tivik says at last, voice tight and eyes darting around like a shriek-rat in a trap. “They’ve finally got enough kyber and they’re building it for real, been building it, almost got it done now -” He cuts off, shifting his weight to reveal the bandages around his arm that his dirty synth-leather jacket has until now hidden.

“Built what? Slow down, tell me what you have.” Cassian prompts, glancing back himself and maneuvering so his back isn’t completely to the opening where the alley empties into the street. “You found the facility where the kyber has been going?”

“No, that’s not it, wouldn’t have called you here for that, could have just dead-dropped it, you know, but can’t with this, we had to meet but you’re _late_ -“

“Then you’ve got the new formula,” Cassian cuts the nervous chatter off a touch roughly, but that isn’t good, can’t let the impatience strangle him, cold and calm and methodical is the only way to deal with Tivik, with any Imperial informant that might decide at any moment to cut their ties and run back to the safety of complacency. “Did your lab finally complete it?”

“No, no,” Tivik tugs at his jacket, pulling it back over the arm that Cassian knows is riddled with track marks and withered from experimental PASIV drugs gone wrong.  “No, it’s the device itself, the new PASIV, the…” He swallows again, and down the street Cassian hears the heavy tread of white boots. “The mind-killer,” Tivik whimpers, and Cassian’s stomach drops.

This is it, this is what he’s been following for months, years, though he hadn’t known it at first. A new type of PASIV, broadcast-based, no cables or chemicals needed, able to reach through walls, locked doors, loyal security, and target virtually anyone – that was the first rumor, the first whisper in the dark. Then it became a multi-target broadcast-based PASIV, capable of drawing more than one target into a Dream, into that soft pseudo-reality where men like Cassian (thieving, thorough, ruthless, relentless) hunt. That alone is bad enough, but now the whispers are warping, the undercurrents ever darker, and Cassian’s mind sneers _it can’t be worse than that_ but his gut, twisting, mutters back, _it can_.

“Tell me,” he orders, knife sharp.

“I’ve already told you what I know,” Tivik’s head jerks, the sound of boots marching closer, the angry murmur of a crowd disturbed drawing near. Cassian grabs his jacket and shoves them both back all the way into the alley, pressing Tivik’s weak shoulder to the wall with significantly less gentleness than he tried before.

“Focus!” Cassian snaps. “Tell me what it does.”

“It’s wireless, multi-targeted,” Tivik’s words fumble out, tripping, and Cassian forces himself to relax his own jaw, unclench his fists, smooth the sharp edges of his expression, his posture. The Imperial chemist (chemist’s _assistant_ , Tivik is a better subject that he is a scientist) is already jumping at dust motes, Cassian will gain nothing by intimidating him into a gibbering terror.

“Why is it called the mind-killer?”

“Residual permanent effect,” Tivik manages, watching over Cassian’s shoulder with round, horrified eyes.

_Worse, so much worse_ Cassian’s guts scream, and he scowls. “How permanent?”

“I have to _go_ -“

“ _How permanent_?”

“I don’t know!” Tivik snarls back, turning on him, a caged animal lashing out. “There was a researcher who knew, worked in the top labs, but he defected and word is the Partisans got him, so they’re looking for him in Jedha, but that’s it! That’s all I know, and you gotta let-“

“What’s this?” A new voice, more static than sentient, and Cassian would call it half-droid except that would have been a deadly insult to a droid.

Instantly, he drops the chemist’s greasy jacket lapels and turns, face relaxed into a friendly smile, hands up, shoulders down. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to block the way, sorry, we’ll move, sir.”

The ‘trooper considers him, a second ‘trooper standing just to the side and behind with his blaster half-raised. The blank white helmet masks more than just features, it masks lines of sight and expression, but all the same, Cassian can feel the human inside the suit evaluating him, glancing aside and looking at the shivering, sweating Tivik. “Let’s see some scandocs,” he buzzes at last.

“Sure, sure, let me just –“ Cassian’s smile stretches into something like embarrassment, he shrugs and fumbles with his pockets. “Oh, oh, right, it’s over here in my bag, sorry, just one second, let me –“ he turns away from the ‘troopers, fishing around in his bag with a sheepish shrug.

“And you, let’s see yours too,” the ‘trooper raises his blaster to gesture at Tivik, who makes a choking noise that screams of fear and guilt. The ‘trooper hears it and steps forward, gloved hands reaching out and Cassian fires through the side of his bag. The first blaster bolt strikes the reaching ‘trooper in the heart, and the second takes the other ‘trooper through the throat before he can cry out. They both slam to the ground in clattering piles of white, like skeletons inside out, and Tivik lets out a little shriek. Down the alley, the crowd startles at the sound of blaster fire, and mechanized voices begin to buzz like angry insects. Cassian resettles his bag.

“What have you _done?_ ” Tivik cries, grabs his elbow, eyes wide and mouth open.

Cassian shrugs him off, glances down the alley. The crowd is shifting away from the street entrance, but white armor is already moving to fill the gap. No exit that way.

“We’re trapped!” Tivik is almost sobbing, his face shining with terror and tears. “You’ve trapped us.”

Cassian looks at him, cold, calm, methodical. Then his face relaxes into a smile, his hands up, his shoulders down. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, smiling. “It’s okay.” He lets Tivik latch back onto his arm, swings his other arm up and around the other man’s back.

“Don’t worry,” he says, almost gentle, and Tivik’s last thought before Cassian pulls the trigger is _oh good, he’s got a plan._

 

 

Cassian climbs.

Behind him, a man who trusted him lies cooling on the filthy ground. Cassian makes a list of things that need his immediate attention, and strikes Tivik’s last gasp from it.

First, evasion. Stormtroopers are shoving through the crowds, driving them back to make a path, scanning the faces and ordering lock down at the nearest port. Cassian considers the shortest route to his shuttle as he jumps down into the alley one over from Tivik’s – from the informant’s – body, and then discards that route as too crowded. The second route is longer, but just as busy. Third route goes through too many open areas. Best option is to go to ground in a nearby cantina, with several exits. Find a dark corner, wait.

Second, communicate. He flicks on his comm, signals Kay. _Bad day at the office, boss is angry, gone for lunch._ He moves casually through the crowd, keeping his shoulders down, his hands resting loosely on the strap of his slightly singed, torn bag. Behind him, buzzing voices order more people back, and the crowd presses Cassian away from the scene as the market patrons push to leave themselves. After a moment, Cassian’s comm buzzes with a brief _acknowledged, see you for dinner_ from Kay.

Third, escape. The port lock down won’t last longer than twenty hours, per standard lock down procedure. In twenty hours, the day cycle of Kafrene will just be ending. That must be what Kay meant by “dinner.” Cassian can manage that long. Briefly, he wishes he’d had time to just hook Tivik up to the PASIV – but that’s a pointless thought, and he strikes it from the list, too.

Evade, communicate, escape. _They call it the mind-killer._ He’s carrying the most valuable intel he’s had for months.

Time to head back to base.


	3. albatross around your neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodhi has been in the business of useless endeavors for awhile, and now is not the time to stop.

It’s cold in the orange desert outside of NiJedha. Bodhi’s scarf hangs askew on his neck, failing to keep the bite of the wind from his skin. The scarf is a cheap, grungy yellow thing anyway; he picked up at the city edge not an hour ago as a last ditch means of hiding his face. It’s nothing like the soft, intricate prayer cloth that his mother wove for him, blue for his past, grey for his present, white for his future, and a red, red thread for his heart wound through the pattern. That scarf is tucked away in the cellar of his family home, because prayer scarves and pious mothers are dangerous things to have in NiJedha these days.

Bodhi isn’t thinking about his mother, or his scarf, but he is thinking of praying.

 _Move,_ the Tognath snarls at him in his harsh native tongue, and Bodhi’s black boots catch in the cold sands, but he fights the fall and steadies himself.

“I’m moving,” he says. “Maybe you could take off the ropes?”

Asking is a useless endeavor – but then, an hour ago he would have said it was a useless endeavor to sneak away from his docked shuttle, because of course the ‘troopers would stop him (they did not). A week ago he would have said it was a useless endeavor to smuggle a holo recording in his boot, because of course the chief inspector would find it (she did not). Months ago, he would have said it was a useless endeavor to defect from the Empire, because of course he would never make any difference (he might – he must). Bodhi has been in the business of useless endeavors for awhile, and now is not the time to stop.

“I’m a friend,” he says as firmly as he can. The Tognath makes a noise, warped by his ‘breather, but it might be a snort.

 _Doubt it,_ he replies, and the ropes stay on.

After awhile, they slide a grimy brown bag over his head, too, and now Bodhi does stumble, falls to his knees in cold sand, then on cold stone, and then what feels like a cold, mosaic floor, which feels familiar, but wrong... _where the hell am I_? The floor feels like it is covered in dust and maybe rubble. His feet are frozen, his knees sore, and his hands have long gone numb from both the cold and the too-tight ropes.

The bag comes off, and Bodhi looks up (and up and up) at a dark face carved with rage, frozen with grief, set with suspicion. The man is huge, with what looks like bulky orange metal armor covering almost his entire body, but his cold rage is so great that even were he as small and thin and fragile as Bodhi feels, right at this moment, this man still would dominate the room. The room. The room? Almost as an afterthought, Bodhi looks around at the faded orange walls, carvings long picked clean of the kyber chips once embedded there. There’s a faded mosaic beneath his knees, once bright patterns of blue and red worn and cracked from neglect.

He’s been here before, he realizes with a distant jolt. It’s the Temple of Kyber, in the heart of NiJedha. But that can’t be right, he was hours out into the desert, he’d stumbled and staggered through frozen dune after frozen dune – _it’s not right, something’s not_ – distantly, he hears something roaring, and he shivers.

The terrifying man ( _Saw? It must be. I have to get this right_ ) steps forward, his legs clanking like chains, like ‘troopers marching, and Bodhi scrambles for his boot. The Tognath lunges, clamps icy fingers around Bodhi’s wrists so hard he thinks they’ll snap. “No, no, it’s a message! A message! I’m a researcher, from Galen Erso’s team,” he cries, and at Saw’s nod the Tognath yanks the holo from Bodhi’s boot and holds it out like it might explode. “I defected so I could warn you, so Galen could warn you!”

There’s a roaring noise in Bodhi’s ears, the rush of blood and terror and desperation. _Why aren’t they listening_? Can’t they hear the truth in his voice? (Can’t they hear the roaring of the crowd?)

“You,” Saw growls, and the chill of Jedha’s desert is warm as a mother’s touch compared to this flint-hard voice, “are a spy.”

“No, no, no, I’m a researcher, I’m a friend, I’m not a, I’m not - please, if you'd just listen!”

“We will know your secrets,” Saw creaks in that terrible, terrible voice. “We will know your betrayal.” He turns, and the cold hands around Bodhi’s wrists press painfully; he yelps, he can’t help it, it hurts, and they aren’t listening, and how did he get into the Temple anyway? “Bor Gullet,” Saw tells the Tognath. “We run the Bor Gullet gambit.”

The Tognath nods, turns to one of the others, says something that Bodhi thinks is _take it apart_ or maybe it’s _take him apart_ , he’s not sure, it’s hard to hear over the roaring. It’s closer now, sounds like a riot, is there a riot outside the Temple?

“The projections are closing in, we don’t have much time,” someone says from behind.

“Then move quickly,” Saw grinds out, “And begin the Bor Gullet.”

Behind Bodhi, blaster fire echoes in the Temple halls as someone, many someones, open fire on what sounds like a furious crowd. Saw clumps closer.

Bodhi is hauled up to his feet, shivering. “A Dream,” he says abruptly. “This is – it’s a Dream, not the Temple, is it my dream? Is it…” Bodhi stops, mouth dry as Jedha’s orange sand, and as he looks up Saw raises one metal finger.

“Now,” Saw’s breath is condensing in the air before his mouth, his breath suddenly cold as winter, and Bodhi shivers again as he feels the barest edge of that unnatural frigid air brush against his skin. “No more hiding. Show me your truth, spy.”

The cold in Saw’s voice takes shape, shoots forward, grey icy tentacles that burst from Saw’s mouth and rip through the dirty yellow scarf. The tentacles tear straight into Bodhi’s throat, his ears, his eyes. He is snap-freezing, sharp slivers of ice splintering into the soft tissues of his body, stabbing into his head, into his memories

(mother’s prayer scarf, blue grey white and a red, red thread for his heart)

(long haul with the other pilots, playing sabaac, betting, laughing, but never too loud, never too rowdy, never too memorable when the officers look your way)

(Galen Erso, pale face tired but dark eyes fierce)

(I used to play in the outer courtyards of the Temple, before they closed it, before the walls were picked clean)

(efficient crowd control, sir, excellent means of peacefully controlling a willful populace)

(bodhi, my son, my pride, wrap up, it will be a cold)

(we walked for hours, the Temple was behind)

(regulation eighteen-alpha-five, no cadet may initiate contact outside of Imperial channels at any)

(you can make it right, if you follow what’s in your heart, you can do this, you can)

(young man, stop poking at the Guardians, they are not in this Temple for your amusement)

(we call it the mind killer)

(how did we get to the Temple?)

(don't forget your scarf, my son)

(show me your truth)

Bodhi’s last thought before his projections tear Saw to shreds is _I lost it, I lost my_

 

 

Bodhi wakes up.

And screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Bodhi, so I hated writing this part, and almost just skipped it, but that felt like doing him a disservice as well as failing to highlight all the ways an extremist like Saw would probably use PASIV technology to rip what he wanted out of people's minds. Poor Bodhi. (Also, the Bor Gullet in this universe is not so much a monster squid but a technique that Saw's developed to both get intel and destroy the target's mind).


	4. if I stumble (they're gonna eat me alive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone’s looking for Jyn Erso.
> 
> She’s going to find them first.

Someone is hunting Jyn Erso.

It’s not the first time, really. Jyn’s been hunted by Imperial troops, by bounty hunters, by rival Dream thieves, even by a very persistent would-be lover, once.  Well, they hadn’t been hunting _her_ , exactly. Not Jyn Erso. They’d hunted Kestrel Dawn, Niki Penne, Tanith Ponta, Aleha, Sulen Chupa-Pau – dozens of girls, women, none of whom were Jyn Erso. Some of those girls had gotten caught, fewer of the women did (Jyn learned fast, learned hard), and sometimes she only barely made it away in time to shed one name and don another, but never once did Jyn Erso come close to being found because almost never did anyone come looking.

 _Almost,_ because once, someone had hunted for Jyn Erso, daughter of Lyra and Galen; that time, the first time, she had run from a man in white and huddled, helpless, alone in crushing darkness – but that was before she’d had the holonet, or her truncheons, or any idea of what her life would be like now that Mama was dead and Papa walked away.  Years and scars and hard lessons learned later, Jyn Erso is so thoroughly buried under a dozen different women that not even Saw would know where to start looking.

Someone is hunting Jyn Erso, nonetheless.

She’s on Kattada when she gets the first alert. She’s sitting in a little rundown café near one of Haleoda City’s many tourist beaches, sipping cheap caf and watching her mark, a wealthy middle-aged Bothan with an angry ex-mate convinced he’s hiding business assets to keep them out of the divorce settlement. Jyn has two datapads out, and she’s skimming through the Bothan’s Nebula Net account (she could hack through NebNet security in under seven seconds if she must, but the mark hasn’t even bothered to set basic security parameters, so there’s no need for even that), and through all his public access tax forms on one datapad, and idly breaking into his Stellar Souls account.  This part of the research is deadly dull, so Jyn’s only half looking at either pad, preferring to watch the Bothan’s eyes jumping around the brightly-colored tourist trap, speculating on the reason for his nerves (maybe he’s having trouble juggling all the Stellar Souls mates he’s been hooking up with on an almost impressive rotation schedule). 

Then, abruptly, one of the datapads vibrates and flashes a little red message in the corner -  someone’s accessed an Imperial database concerning the Separatist prison camp on Vallt, the camp where Jyn was born. The records are harmless to Jyn, she long ago wiped any reference to her own name from them, but Lyra Erso had been too well documented for Jyn to erase her without drawing attention. Jyn frowns at the alert; it doesn’t necessarily mean someone was looking for Lyra, or for Jyn, so she dismisses the alert.

A few seconds later, the other datapad chimes, another red warning in the corner. Someone has just sliced into a second, much more restricted, Imperial database, this one holding records of government research contracts decades ago, before the Republic became the Empire. Jyn’s scarred hands itch suddenly, wanting to curl up around the kyber pendant that hangs from her neck. It’s probably nothing, there are so many possibilities, so many things someone could want from old government contracts that have nothing to do with energy research or kyber crystals or - another alert pings. Someone (the same someone, it has to be) is looking for Project Celestial Power, an energy research project granted to a company on Coruscant, headed by – _oh, kriff_ \- Orson Krennic.

Jyn’s hand clenches around her kyber necklace so tight that her knuckles turn as white as the bones beneath, white as a cape flowing over green grass.

 She flips Nebula Net and Stellar Souls closed, opens a program that she absolutely should not have, and sends out a query. Jyn doesn’t have the same resources she had back when she was running with the Partisans (before Saw dumped her, like so much bilge from a leaking freighter), but she’s smart and she’s careful and she has a PASIV, which gives her a hell of an edge in this galaxy. She’s stolen this program on her datapad from the mind of a particularly arrogant Imperial security programmer, and it allows her to access Imperial search algorithms normally reserved for Star Destroyer Captains and above. If she’s careful, if she’s quiet, she can use the access points from both the Vallt records breach and the contracts records breach…

There, she’s found them, the slicer. The program is written better than Jyn can really understand, and it chews through data faster than she can process, so she sits quietly and watches code strings flash by on her datapad, grabbing only the occasional word (kyber, Geonosis, ketamine, permanent residual effects, Ring of Kafrene, chemist’s assistant, defector, researcher) until the code strings stop racing and instead resolves into neat file headers all laid out for her to peruse at leisure. Jyn looks at the first log, which says: _Keystroke Log – query – Erso / Galen / family records / child._

Her hands are aching, and she pauses a moment to force them off the kyber crystal, to wipe off her sweaty palms on her trousers, to breathe.

The second log says: _Query origin – Thand region – Kafrene – public Access Terminal 37962R – user name: Cormin, Adni._

 The third log says: _User Profile – Cormin, Adni – This user has not filled in their profile. Send them a friend request!_

Jyn sets the tracer program to hunting through Imperial databases for Adni Cormin, but she has a gut feeling she’s going to get nothing, that Adni Cormin does not exist. So she grabs the second datapad (flips the Bothan’s private financial data closed with an impatient grimace) and starts to hunt for the access codes to the Imperial port security feeds in the Ring of Kafrene. If she can get that, she can get into landing records, shipping manifests, and if she’s good enough (she is, she _is_ , no matter what Saw thought) she can even access security camera footage. And then it’s just a matter of finding the security footage from public access terminal 37962R, comparing it to the nearest port’s camera footage, and finding the hunter.

Someone’s looking for Jyn Erso.

She’s going to find them first.

 

 

 

It takes her eight hours. The café owner chases her out after the third, and she wanders to the beach side, puts her back to a large sculpture of some native ocean animal, and huddles there as the sun stretches across the sky, refracting off the rainbow-colored sands in a famously beautiful display as emerald green waves lap gently nearby. Jyn sees none of it. By hour four, she’s found the security camera footage from the public access terminal several systems away, and she’s lucky that it’s databanks were recently uploaded to the general security servers, because otherwise she’d have to fly to Kafrene herself to download them from the physical terminal. But she is lucky, so instead she simply narrows down the time frame that ‘Adni Cormin’ might reasonably have accessed the damn thing, and starts to sift through faces.

By hour six, she’s also worked her way into the Kafrene security feeds, which is easy enough. But now she has to start comparing the faces of people walking out of the port (there’s an entirely different feed from the opposite angle, watching the faces that come in - but one tedious, painful thing at a time) to the faces on the public access terminal, and frankly, by hour seven she’s cramped, sore, irritated, and somehow, still riding the wave of shaky fear that had hit her the moment she saw Galen Erso’s name. Her tracer program turns up nothing on Adni Cormin, but it connects him to a UT-60D U-wing, which is oddly enough registered in Kafrene to a Joreth Sward, and _also_ registered in Kuat, to a Ceth Triald. And also in Bespin, to a Lieutenant [Redacted] Willix.

Jyn’s knuckles are white around the kyber crystal.

By the end of hour eight, the setting sun is turning the sky a fantastic red-gold color that she never notices, and _she has him_.

She has him on both datapads, one showing footage from the public access terminal, and one from the port cams. Human, male, and younger than she expected. He has slightly unkempt dark hair and a beard just a touch too long for current fashion – but he’s on Kafrene, where the styles are always about six months behind the Core, so he blends with the port crowds perfectly. He has the exact same expression in both images – the impassive, glassy-eyed stare of a citizen moving through his daily routine, living the relatively safe, bland life of an apolitical nobody in an Imperial system. His features are dark but unremarkable, though his jawline and cheekbones look knife sharp. He looks wholly normal, completely uninteresting, yet there’s something in his posture that Jyn recognizes as dangerous. She watches him walk through the port front gate twice before she picks it out – he moves through the jostling crowd without once touching anyone, and his hand is always curled casually near the opening of his bag. If there isn’t a weapon in there, Jyn’s a nerf-herder.

Jyn stares at the images for a while longer, brain buzzing, tired and hungry and stiff from sitting too long. She needs to know who he is, why he’s looking for her, what he _wants_ – but while she finds his U-wing on the port landing pads, the registration tag for Joreth Sward gets her nothing but another empty name that leads nowhere. She’ll have to track the U-wing, maybe see if he checks in at one of the other ports where he’s registered under a different name.

So now Jyn knows his face. She knows that he’s good enough to slice through mid-level Imperial firewalls from public access terminals without triggering eighteen kinds of alarms, and she knows that he carries a weapon and can move through a crowd without being touched.

It’s not enough.

She won’t find what she needs through the holonet. She’s not likely to get it by walking up and beating him bloody, either (tempting, so tempting, but she’s better than that these days, better than just a bloody-knuckled thug killing whatever Saw tells her to kill, breaking what he tells her to break).

So he’s dangerous, so he’s elusive, so he’s a hunter. That’s okay – so is Jyn. And Jyn has a PASIV.

But if he’s got the resources for multiple ship registrations, he might have the resources for some Dream training, too. That means weaponized projections, and she doesn’t have time to spend months researching him enough to plan for whatever form those will take (but if she had to speculate, looking at the way he moves through the crowd, she guesses that his projections are silent, and quick, and vicious).

Jyn needs an architect.

She rolls the kyber crystal through her fingers, and sighs.

Actually, she needs two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More social media in space references: "Stellar Souls" was my lame attempt at space!Tinder. Or maybe Grindr, given how the Bothan is using it. He's sort of slimy, either way, and also totally irrelevant. 
> 
> Actual Dream Thieving and evil Imperial plots coming soon!


	5. flick a switch and open your third eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To an outsider, Jyn thinks, they might look like lovers.

Whatever else may be said of her (and there has been a lot said/snarled/shouted, all across some of the nastier parts of the galaxy), Jyn is damn good at what she does. That statement covers a lot of things, too; she's an experienced fighter, a skilled slicer, and an excellent thief. She knows how to move through crowds without falling prey to pickpockets or slave-grabbers. She can blend quietly into the shadows of an alley, or blaze through a bar fight like a vengeful demon. She marks all the exits, never drinks from anything that's been out of her sight, wears heavy leather bracers that cover her forearms nearly to her elbows, and always, always keeps her back to a wall.  Because all of her myriad of unsavory yet necessary skills are just auxiliaries to her true talent: what Jyn does is _survive_.

So it is with a certain professional sort of respect that she watches the man on the other side of the cantina. He's taller than he looked in the stolen security feeds, and he somehow seems a little darker, too. Disappointingly, he doesn't have the messenger bag this time; that would have made tonight significantly easier. She's willing to bet that he has a blaster holstered by his right arm under that leather jacket, though. More importantly, he's sitting in a corner seat at the cantina, his back to the wall, his body angled so he can casually sweep his gaze across the entire place without having to really turn, yet he has a short and relatively clear path to a nearby exit. He has a drink from the bar, but he’s barely touched it, tapping his long fingers idly on the rim. And when he lifts a hand to scrub once at his beard, Jyn catches a brief flash of skin-toned synth-weave bracers that start at his wrist and disappear up into his sleeves.

Well, those explain a few things.

Mostly, though, it's his eyes that pose the biggest problem. His face is calm, almost glazed over, like he's already drunk too much or is just lost in his thoughts. But his eyes are constantly moving, and even when one thoroughly soused Abyssin staggers into the bar right next to him, spilling about three other patrons' drinks and knocking over several stools, her mark simply lifts his glass and leans back just enough to avoid the flailing alien limbs, his focus shifting away to glance at the gang of Ugnauts that shuffle in the cantina door at the same time.

Alright, so she won't be catching this guy unguarded as he heads into the ‘fresher, or stumbles drunk into the alleys behind the cantina.  She can't even pull off a Clumsy Callista or an Excuse Me Mister.  Definitely not a Bantha in the Bag. And she sure as hell can't try a Mallowpot, because she doesn't even know if he swings towards human women (and yeah, look at how great that particular gambit worked out for her with the Omwati, anyway).

Almost as if he's heard her small sigh of irritation, his head turns in her direction. Jyn sees it coming at the last second and looks away, letting her loose bangs sweep down to hide her face.  She takes the opportunity to scan around the cantina again, double checking her exit routes. If he's wearing bracers, he's at least familiar with Dreaming, and he's been lurking in this very cantina on Ord Mantell for the last three days, if her intel is any good (and it had better be, or her source is going to meet the business end of her truncheons). So she can't be sloppy, or this will end painfully for her.

But he hasn't so much as moved from that spot for two hours, and he probably won't for another two, and then she'll probably miss her window because there's nowhere she could position herself in this lousy bar that will allow her to block off all three exits. That's probably why he chose that spot, she figures, a little sourly. Damn.

She's going to have to approach him.

No Mallowpot, she just doesn't have it in her tonight (ever). But she's almost forgotten that tonight, at least, she's not running this job alone. Jyn props her chin on her hand, casually letting her fingers hover a little bit in front of her mouth to disguise the movement of her lips. "I have to get close, I'll need an assist."

"He won't fall for a Mallowpot," comes the immediate, grumpy response.

Jyn resists the urge to turn and glare across the cantina at the bulky human male sitting in the darkest alcove, wild dark hair and darker scowl keeping most of the other patrons well back. Although, Jyn thinks, the poorly-disguised repeating blaster peeking over his broad shoulders might have something to do with that, too. "I know," she snaps at her drink, refusing to look. "Going to try a Theed Conference."

"Attacking with honesty?" quips her second (temporary, it's always only temporary) teammate with what sounds like possible surprise and definite laughter. "A novel idea, but perhaps here, most appropriate. I commend you."

"Thanks," Jyn replies snidely. This time she does glance over her shoulder, to the almost elegant profile of the only sentient being willing to sit within arm's reach of the glowering gunman.  "I’ll need you to do the lift."

"Just get him over here," grumbles the gunman. "But don't push it."

Jyn pauses, uncertain.

"What he means," the second man interprets smoothly, and even though she _knows_ it's not possible, Jyn could swear he’s looking at her. "Is that this mark feels dangerous, little sister. And you don't know why he's looking for you."

"Could be a trap," the gunman agrees.

Jyn fiddles with her glass for a moment longer. “Are you two getting anything from the crowd?”

“It’s not a very talkative bunch,” the second man says with some humor. “Perhaps I should try less charm and more humor. Two exiled monks walk into a bar…”

“He hates the Empire,” the gunman grunts, cutting off his partner’s teasing. “Everyone’s grumbling about the latest blockade, and the local moff.”

“That’s not enough to work with,” Jyn mutters a little sullenly.

“We could try a Gone With The Womp-Rat,” the second man offers brightly.

Jyn considers it for a moment, then sighs. “No, he’s wearing bracers. If he’s trained, we’ll just end up dead.”

“So, Theed Conference?”

“Theed Conference.” Jyn sets her drink aside, and gets up. "Here we go," she breathes, and strides across the bar.

He sees her coming, of course, and his gaze is locked on her before she's made it halfway. She keeps her jaw relaxed and her gait as nonchalant as possible, and she watches his answering bland expression like a farlus hawk. She sidles to the bar, sidestepping the Abyssin who is still leaning there and arguing with the bartender, and steps only when she’s brushing up against his knees. She folds her arms and appraises him for a moment, letting him see her do it, allowing him to run his eyes over her in turn. His face reveals nothing, but his long fingers still on the rim of his glass.         He doesn't speak, but he tilts his head back and then slowly taps his glass again, deliberately calm. Jyn lets herself lean sideways against the bar, crowding towards him to keep his attention, and flicks her hair back dismissively. "You're waiting for someone.”

"It's not you," he replies; his voice is low, almost gentle, and has a lilting accent she can't quite place.

 _Not according to your search history_ , Jyn thinks, but a Theed Conference gambit calls for unexpected honesty, not a complete showing of her hand. "I know why you’ve been waiting so long," she says instead. And this part, of course, is true. Jyn has spent the last week hunting down every possible transmission that she could link to this man, and while it's been shockingly difficult, it hasn't been impossible. Once she figured out he used an old Imperial network access port, the kind that the Empire used to use in droids and security camera hubs, she had tracked all his current message traffic here on Ord Mantell. She knows about the Quarren who was supposed to bring him stolen Imperial personnel records detailing the placement of former Separatist prison camp refugees, specifically, those from Vallt.

She knows, because she's already stolen the Quarren's files and then tipped him off that the cantina was a trap. He's probably already off world.  Jyn's already scrubbed the files, and there was nothing useful in there, anyway. Nothing that would have led to Jyn.  Really, her mark should be thanking her for saving him what was probably a lot of credits.

He doesn't look particularly grateful. In fact, his lips have thinned slightly, giving his blank expression a veneer of disdain. But still he says nothing, and Jyn pushes a little harder. “You came here to get information. And I know why you need it,” she tells him.

He shifts his weight slightly, and Jyn notes that he lets his hand drift protectively over his left jacket pocket for a brief moment before he settles it on his knee again. "And you're offering to tell me all about it, are you?"

Jyn shrugs. "You willing to pay the price?"

He regards her for a moment. "Ominous phrasing," he replies at last, lightly.

Jyn pushes herself up from the bar and against all her instincts, turns her back on him. "Your call, then," she says over her shoulder as she walks away, towards the dark alcove where her (temporary) teammates wait. He doesn't follow, and though she can feel his eyes on her back he doesn't seem inclined to do so. Shit. She'll have to jab him a little. "Enjoy your drink, Adni Cormin," she calls back.

And _damn_ he's faster than she expected, because she's barely made it three steps when her internal alarms start wailing and she spins around just in time to see him loom up behind her, pushing aggressively into her space. He doesn't try to grab her, mercifully, or she'd be forced to break his arms and bolt, and that would ruin everything. But the sudden ferocity of his eyes and his too-close proximity startles her enough that she steps back once, and feels her shoulder blades thump lightly against the wall.  He braces one hand against the wall by her head, his other hovering near the right side of his jacket (she can just see the handle of a blaster tucked under  his arm, she _knew_ it) and leans his head down close to her ear. Reflexively, Jyn snaps her hands up and digs her fingers into his shirt front, both holding him away from her and preventing him from moving back. She shifts her weight until it's all on one leg, the other ready to slam her knee up into his groin.

"And how," he asks menacingly, directly into her ear, "do you know that name?"

"You willing to pay that price, too?" she retorts quietly, and risks a quick glance over his shoulder to the cantina. She’s only a few steps from the alcove, and already a shadowy silhouette is rising smoothly from the booth. Alarmingly, the noise level of the cantina seems to fade, until it’s only a muffled susurration of background noise that underscores the too-loud sound of her breathing, and of his. To their left, the Abyssin has stopped arguing with the bartender.

She has to keep the mark’s attention or this could all get very ugly.

The dark man who has been hunting her stays silent too long, and Jyn finds herself staring at the bare expanse of his neck, just a few inches from her face.  It seems like a ridiculous risk, to give her that much access to his throat when he's practically got her pinned to the wall. He has a blaster, but there's no way he'd be able to pull it free and shoot her before she could get her teeth in his carotid. She has the wild urge to lean up and bite him - not a killing bite, but enough to hurt, enough to teach him. But then she glances down, and sees that his hand isn't hovering near the concealed blaster in his jacket at all; it's resting delicately on the handle of the concealed vibroblade in his belt, and he could easily pull _that_ free and plunge it into her belly before she could hope to stop him.

"You always bargain like this?" he murmurs, lips almost brushing her earlobe. To an outsider, Jyn thinks, they might look like lovers.

She shouldn’t push too hard, not when he clearly has the advantage like this.  But the danger is making her reckless, and behind him, she can just see a hand creeping slowly toward his left jacket pocket, so she takes the risk. “You always hack imperial databases?”

But her question has come a beat too late to distract him; the moment her teammate’s hand snakes into the mark’s pocket, he feels it. His face is still tucked by her ear, but under her hands his heart starts racing, his shoulders turn rigid, and his hand tightens on the vibroblade hilt. In the split second before he can react, Jyn turns her head and presses her lips to the hollow of his throat.  

He freezes, and Jyn slams her knee into his gut.

He rears back, coughing, and Jyn bolts for the nearest exit. The noise of the cantina comes back with a fierce roar as the patrons erupt around her. Through the whirl of grasping hands and shrieking sentients, Jyn catches a glimpse of her teammates gliding through the doors ahead of her. The slender man holds up what looks like a scandoc registry, and the burly man reads it over his shoulder even as he shoves his partner to safety. Good, at least they’ll have gotten _something._

Jyn dodges and slides through the crowd, but just before she makes it to the door herself, the distinctive, terrifying shape of an Imperial security droid materializes seemingly out of nowhere, and slams a heavy metal hand into her chest. All the air escapes Jyn in a painful rush, and her feet fly out from under her as the droid smashes her unceremoniously to the ground.

 _He’s definitely had training_ , she has just enough time to think, before the droid lifts a heavy metal foot and caves in her skull.

               

 

Cassian wakes up.

His second thought is, _hold still and play dead._

His first thought, of course, is _shit_.

He’s slumped in a booth in a cantina, and around him the noise of a regular evening crowd dulls but does not block out the urgent voices muttering around him.

Three people, he registers, forcing his breathing to stay shallow and light, keeping his eyes stubbornly closed despite the almost desperate urge to open them and look at his attackers. Someone large is sitting, unmoving, on his left side, and two more voices argue on his right, and he can only just catch fragments of their words.

“- ould at least ask, little sister, perhaps you will learn - ”

“ – don’t care _what_ they want, I’m _not_ –“

“ – blinded by anger, and I am an expert at that, you know –“

The higher voice sudden rises in exasperation, and he recognizes it as a woman, as _the_ woman, the one who had caught him in the Dream. “Chirrut!” She is snarling a little. “I am not going to work with _his kind_.”

“He’s up,” the big man to Cassian’s left grunts, and the woman falls silent.

No point in pretending any more. Cassian opens his eyes.

He’s still in the cantina he’s been haunting for three days – stupid, _stupid_ to wait so long in the same place, stupid to make himself so predictable. The drink he ordered when he arrived sits in front of him, and he eyes it for a brief second with a sense of irrational betrayal. That must be how they got him; probably bribed the bartender to drug him. _Stupid_ , he thinks again furiously, _careless_ to keep coming back to the same place. If he hadn’t been so desperate for a lead on Erso, _any_ lead, he never would have risked waiting for a contact this long. But there’s no point dwelling on it. These people want something from him, and if they were Imperials, he would already be strapped to a PASIV and screaming his way through all the worst nightmares the Imperial Sub-Intel goons could Dream up. So, regroup, recon, react.

The man on his left is large, hairy, and carrying a gun Cassian could only describe as _overkill_. By contrast, the man on his immediate right is slender, clean shaven, and has an elegantly-carved staff propped against his robed shoulder. He also appears to be completely blind. A black bag that could only contain a PASIV is draped over his shoulder and across his chest.

But even though she’s the farthest from him, Cassian focuses on the woman. It’s her, the woman who had sauntered practically into his lap and thrown his secrets in his face. He recognizes the technique for what it was, of course; he’s seduced more than his fair share of targets with the same move. No one has ever successfully pulled it on him, though. He fights the flush of humiliation at the thought that all it takes, apparently, is a pretty pair of green eyes and a sharp-edged smirk to get under his guard.

“If you wanted an introduction,” he says in a dry voice, trying to look as unruffled as possible, “you could have just bought me a drink.”

The slender man chuckles. “Technically, Captain, she did.”

Cassian freezes, face going blank. _Captain._ They know who he is, which means they know…but maybe he’s overreacting. Whatever they’d gotten from his pocket, whatever his treacherous subconscious has given them, it can’t have been that much. His militarized projections tore them apart in seconds, far too fast for any of them to review a long dossier. Maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems.

As if reading his mind, the woman leans forward and says softly, “Captain Cassian Andor, Rebel Intelligence.”

It’s exactly as bad as it seems.

Cassian’s mind goes into overdrive, considering and rejecting a dozen different possible ways to escape, ways to kill these strangers before they use whatever they got from him to harm the Alliance, ways to kill himself before they can get any more from him – but it’s no good, he’s trapped, he’s _failed_ -

And then the slender man turns his milky blue eyes towards Cassian’s face and says, with an enigmatic smile, “I am Chirrut Imwe, that man next to you is Baze Malbus, and _this_ ,” he tilts his head sideways to indicate the woman, “is Jyn Erso.”

All the color drains from the woman’s face, and in the dead silence that follows, Cassian feels the smallest spark of hope ignite in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love heist movies/tv shows, and I really love when cons name their favorite tricks silly things like The Cherry Pie or The Three Blind Mice or whatever. Most of the gambits in this chapter are total nonsense just there to sound funny, but The Mallowpot is my Star Wars version of a Honeypot Trick (on wookiepedia, "mallow" is basically a sweet cream they pour in hot chocolate, so I figure it's a good substitute for honey), and the Gone With the Womp-Rat is basically a snatch and grab move designed to make projections chase one person while their teammate swings around to finish working the extraction. Jyn rejects the Womp-Rat gambit because she figures if Cassian has sub-security training then the militarized projections won't allow anyone to get close to Cassian once they're put on alert, and she rejects the Mallowpot because it's just not her thing. Of course, she gets all up in his space and sort of accidentally intrigues him anyway...
> 
> Honest question: did this chapter make any sense, or was it just an incoherent mess? I re-read and re-wrote it so many times I can't actually tell anymore.


End file.
